


Do not go where I can't follow

by UnheardMelody



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Angst, Emotional pain, F/M, M/M, New Quest, Not everyone's dead, Poor Kíli, Tauriel was useful for once
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6679267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnheardMelody/pseuds/UnheardMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of the Five Armies was won, with an unbearably high price. Thorin is dead, and so is Fili. Of the Durins, only Kili is left, burdened with the legacy of Durin's name and yet too young and lost to bear such a burden.<br/>Bilbo Baggins has never felt so useless in his whole life, and just when everything seems lost, he finds himself unable to submit to the cruel fate that seems to have been designed for him.<br/>What if an ancient Elvish legend spoke of a powerful Dwarvish artefact? What if this artifact held the key to Bilbo's happiness?<br/>Bilbo finds he cannot ignore the call of salvation: he cannot fail once again.<br/>And that is how he will decide to set out on a whole new quest - the one to save the only soul he will ever love.</p><p>-</p><p>I'm sorry, I suck at recaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Bilbo Baggins knew grief. He had met it before, and it had been a strong companion of his life for a long while. Since his parents had died, leaving him alone in a hobbit hole built to house eight people at least with all comforts, the only company that never truly left him was grief. With the passing of the years, it had faded slowly to an echo in the empty rooms of his house, but it had never truly left, always lingering on the walls of his heart. Not that he had ever had any hope it would go away completely. After some time, Bilbo had come into terms with the fact that it would stay right where it was, maybe fainter as the days and months and years went on, but never disappearing completely.

And to some extent, for this he was grateful. The memory of the sound of his mother’s voice might have started to fade, and Bilbo found that he could not quite recall the exact shade of purple of his father’s favourite scarf, but this grief, this weight that he bore with him, this was proof that he had loved his parents dearly, and no matter how many details could slip from his memory, he could never forget what they had been to him.

Yes, Bilbo did know grief. However, he was not in the least prepared for what came to him that day at the very top of Ravenhill, when he watched Thorin Oakenshield exhale his last breath, incapable of saving him, incapable of saying what the King truly meant to him. He watched as Thorin pleaded for forgiveness, breath running short, while blood spilled from his wound and the world went cold all around him.

_“Bilbo” Thorin is laying on the fresh snow, blood all around him._

_“I’m glad you’re here” A ragged breath comes out of his lips, air escaping like a ray of sun through clouds._

_“I wish to part from you in friendship.”_

_“You’re not going anywhere, Thorin, you’re going to live” says Bilbo, hands working frantically to stop the flow of red thick liquid from the deep gash on Thorin’s torso, and even as he says the words he knows he’s lying, and the pool of blood is just too large and how is there even any blood left in Thorin’s body-_

_“I take back my words and my deeds at the gate” Thorin manages to spit out while struggling for breath, and Bilbo takes a second to look at him in the eyes and what he sees is regret, and sorrow._

_“You did what only a true friend would do” and he’s blinking frantically, eyes spilling remorse, and Bilbo would like to say that he only wanted to save his life and would have done anything, given anything – even their friendship – to do it._

_“Forgive me. I was too blind to see” Thorin’s eyes are wide open now, and what he does not know is Bilbo has already forgiven him, in fact he was never actually angry at him, only so very sad, because he could understand only too well the pull the Arkenstone could have on somebody’s mind, just like he felt the dire need to keep it for himself when he first set his eyes on it… He has never really told anyone how hard it has been to part with it. Bilbo wishes to say this and more, but somehow he can’t get a word out of his mouth, like his tongue suddenly swelled up and got too big for his own mouth._

_“I am so sorry I have led you into such peril” Thorin’s voice breaks, his words trailing into a sputtering cough, blood gurgling in his mouth._

_Bilbo seems to finally be able to move his tongue about his mouth, and manages to spit out a few words: “I am glad to have shared in your perils Thorin, each and every one of them. And it’s far more than any Baggins deserves.” And he owes him this at least, because a company of dwarves showing up at his doorstep one April night turned out being the best thing that ever happed to him and he wants Thorin to know he doesn’t regret following him, in fact he would again, a thousand times._

_A small smile finds its place on Thorin’s lips, and for a moment it looks like his breathing is getting better, steadier, and something close to relief sails his face._

_“Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books, and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow. If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.” And breathing gets hard again, and Bilbo can feel his eyes flooding with tears, and he desperately hopes that this won’t be the last thing Thorin sees, his tears rolling down his face-_

_“No no no no, Thorin! Thorin don’t you dare”_

_And what bilbo means to say is "Don’t you dare leave me here alone" and he means to say so many other things but Thorin’s gone, he has slipped through his fingers and Bilbo keeps muttering something about the eagles but the King’s eyes have frozen and the spark of life no longer resides in them and his body has gone still, no cough is shaking him anymore…_

Bilbo did not know how long he had been there, crouching on the dead body of the one dwarf king he would have followed to the end of the world. His tears were freezing on his face and yet he did not seem to notice. He realised the battle was over only when a shaking hand found its way to his shoulder, and Bilbo turned around slightly to find the sorrowful and yet kind face of Balin. The rest of the company had gathered around them, and they were all staring at their dead King somehow knowing they had failed him. Dwalin was kneeling on the cold ground, elbows and head at Thorin’s feet, a wounded cry rising from his chest. Thorin was his King, his kin, and yet in the end he could not save him, could not shield him, not even avenge him.

At the sight of the company, Bilbo’s eyes were filled once more with fresh tears, because this was truly happening, Thorin was truly dead, and Bilbo would never see the light in those Durin blue eyes again.

It was only some time afterward that Bilbo found himself walking, not actually remembering how exactly he had managed to get up and leave Thorin’s body _– Balin’s voice echoes in his head: “We need to bring him back to the stone he was born from, laddie”_ – and suddenly he found himself facing someone’s waist, a slender and coated in green waist. He looked up to see the elegant face traits of an elf-maiden, beautiful yet twisted with pain and sorrow, the ghost of fresh tears on the high cheekbones.

Tauriel stood on the staircase, bow in hand and sadness painted on her face. She gazed down at Bilbo, and found she could not bring herself to look at him, and turned her head.

Bilbo returned a puzzled look, and he was on the edge of an automatic apology, but then something behind the slender figure of the elf caught his attention: a dwarf, with a mop of dirty and dishevelled hair hanging all over his face and a cry spilling from his lips, holding a slightly larger body in his arms, a bundle of cloth and blood and a fall of blond hair, still glinting in the sun.

With horror Bilbo realised he was staring at Kili, now the last of Durin’s line, holding on to the dead body of his brother Fili, the Golden Prince of Erebor. Fili’s eyes stared emptily at the sky above him, mouth slightly open as if he was about to say something, perhaps some word of reassurance for his brother.

Kili’s face was instead a mask of pain, the face of someone who’s just seen half of his own soul being torn away from his body.

Bilbo found himself overpowered by a new wave of grief, for Thorin and for his nephew, and for Kili, who was now left utterly alone with the weight of a burden greater than him on his shoulders.

He approached the two brothers limply, stumbling on his own feet, and kneeled next to Kili, circling him with his arm. Kili allowed himself to rest his head against Bilbo’s neck, and although he was much bigger and stouter than the little hobbit, the latter felt like he was holding a small and shivering child who had just woken up from bad dream, and oh, how he wished he could tell Kili this was all just a nightmare…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here we are. This is my first English fanfiction. I still strongly fear that my English is not strong enough for this, in fact I have a feeling it's so much crap. So feel free to tell me anything that's wrong with my writing, I would love to read any suggestion and helpful critique.  
> This is just the prologue - not much huh - but more is to come, provided I don't suddenly realise this was all a bad idea.  
> Thanks for taking the time to read.  
> Unheard Melody


	2. Chapter 1

The depths of the Lonely Mountain had never seemed so dark. No matter how many torches were lit, no matter how much glittering treasure lay in the vast halls of stone, no matter how many dwarves walked the paths of their ancestors – Bilbo found that his eyes could perceive no light. It was like the cold and unyielding stone absorbed any hint, any sparkle of life.

And that was all he could see: stone. In the funeral chamber, two altars had been crafted, richly decorated. Bilbo found that although shimmering, that stone was no less dead to his eyes. On the twin altars, two bodies.

Thorin Oakenshield lay on his cold bed with Orcrist clasped in his hands and garments fit for a king on his skin, his black locks streaked with grey spread neatly around his head.

To Bilbo’s eyes, nothing of him remained. His face was painted with a peaceful frown that had nothing to do with the fierce scowl he had born in life. All Bilbo could see in front of him was cold dead stone. No flesh seemed to reside under the richly embroidered clothes, and it was as if a statue had been carved on top of the altar, like it was only the lid of the sarcophagus that held the real corpse.

Bilbo could not bring himself to think that there was once a soul in that shell of stone, the very soul he held dearest.

Suddenly he found he could not hold on to that sight any longer. Too much pain was caused by knowing how that body had moved when life was still in it, how those strong arms had wielded the glittering sword now barely held in place by limp hands, how that face had been animated by the regal fierceness only he truly possessed, and how those painfully blue eyes had sparkled with the depth of a thousand seas…

He turned his gaze to the other altar.

The young dwarf that lay on it had been the very image of a shining sun. Hair like gold, a quick and knowing smile, and clever blue eyes that bore the legacy of Durin. Bilbo could remember only too well the way Fili was always too quick to place himself between danger and his younger brother, the way he was so very young and so very mature at the same time. And it killed him now to see the unnatural stillness in those arms, to know that he would never swing his sword to protect his family again, and to know that he would never get to live as the Golden Prince he was meant to be.

His hair was now neatly braided at the sides of his face, and a smile hinted at his lips, the small smile of one who died knowing his brother was safe, and hoping that from now on he would be able to protect himself.

The sight of Fili’s body pained Bilbo nearly as much as the sight of Thorin’s. And what made it even more unbearable was the gaze Kili directed to his fallen brother. A great sorrow took place on the young dwarf’s face, and waves of regret found their way to his eyes, but most heart-breaking of all was the look of utter loneliness, like all he had had just been torn away from him.

The rest of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield was paying homage to the two altars, to their King and their Prince, but most of all to their leader and his nephew, to their friends. Gandalf stood in a corner of the chamber, watching silently and holding on to his staff as for support, his grey eyes more tired and sad than ever. And for a second Bilbo wondered how it must be like to see entire generations of people die, people with whom bonds had been created, and to live through it all, undying and yet incapable of saving any of them.

Of what happened after that, Bilbo remembered little. As the funeral ceremony carried on, all he could focus on was his own grief. He had started weeping without even noticing, and when Gandalf had bent his head slightly as if to ask whether he wanted to speak for the dead, he had shaken his head. He couldn’t keep his eyes open without crying, speaking was out of question. And besides, he felt like anything that he could possibly say could never do justice to the two brave dwarves who did not deserve their fate, nor to the feelings he bore for them.

Immediately after the funeral, Dain Ironfoot was proclaimed King Regent of Erebor, a position to be held until the arrival of Dis, Thorin’s sister, who would be Queen Regent until the day Kili came of age and was able to claim the title for himself. Title he did not seem anxious to possess: his eyes remained all the time fixed on his fallen brother and he did not seem to pay any sort of attention to Dain been crowned in front of him.

_Being crowned with Thorin’s crown_ , Bilbo thought, feeling new tears roll down his cheeks. He wondered whether it could have been more unfair than this. Thorin had spent a lifetime away from his home – Bilbo could only shiver at the thought of living for more than a hundred and seventy years so far from Bag End – and then he had finally managed to reclaim it only to be torn apart from it again to free his people from the tremendous terror Azog was, the last deed of a King towards his people. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that someone who did not have the tiniest idea how it felt to fight to reclaim their homeland shall wear a crown destined to someone so very brave and so very fierce.

Bilbo knew that Dain was not going to keep that crown forever, that it would be a matter of months before Dis could reach Erebor together with the dwarves from the Blue Mountains, and still he could not avoid thinking that that crown only had one place, and it was not Dain’s head.

Before he even knew it, Bilbo found himself running through the vast halls and corridors carved in the heart of the Lonely Mountain, hurrying towards his room. He was rather surprised when he got to the small chamber rather quickly and without taking bad turns, considering the state of mind he was in.

He started packing quickly, shoving all his possessions hastily inside his pack, for once not caring if wrinkles ruined his clothes. Throughout the duration of the quest his personal effects had remained quite scarce; he was done packing after very little time and he found himself scanning the room with his eyes in search of anything that had gone unnoticed in the heat of collecting all his stuff. Suddenly his eyes landed on a small rounded object laying on his bedside table: the acorn he had picked up in Beorn’s garden. At that sight Bilbo’s shoulder’s sank once again, remembering how he had held it in his hand out to Thorin, a confused expression on his face, that of someone who cannot quite understand what’s in front of them. And how his eyes had been lit up at Bilbo’s explanation, and a smile had found its way to his lips, baring his teeth and creating small wrinkles around his eyelids. How beautiful he had been while a small laugh came out his throat, a ray of moonlight in the darkest of nights…

Bilbo had to force such thoughts back to where they had come from, for a new lump of tears had formed itself in his throat, and he could not afford to be delayed by yet another round of crying crouched on the small bed. Therefore, he quickly shoved the acorn in his pocket and hastily made for the door with his pack on his shoulders.

Once again he surprisingly found his way to the main outer gate quite easily, and was let out by the guards from a small door near the main entrance.

And so his adventure was ending. Slipping out of a back door of the grand Mountain like a thief at midnight, without a word of goodbye for his brave companions. And as much as his heart ached at the thought, he knew he could not bring himself to go to them and look at them in the eyes as he told them he was cowering back home, to his own safe hobbit hole because he could not live another minute in a cold Mountain that held nothing but death to his eyes.

However, it the end the decision was not his to make, because as he was taking the first few steps towards Dale he heard the voices of ten angry dwarves telling him to wait, and he turned around to see his friends crowding the small door.

He smiled fondly, as tears flooded his eyes, refusing to let them out.

“You wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, would you, laddie?” the small reproaching smile on Balin’s face made him feel like a small child caught with his hands deep in a pot of jam.

Bilbo noticed that Kili wasn’t among them, and he felt at the same time the greatest heartache and the awareness that it was for the best, because although he would not admit it, he knew he did not have the strength to face the young Prince and look at him and tell him there was nothing he could do to rebuild the world that had crumbled apart around him. An even more hidden part of his heart threatened to break into a thousand pieces at the very sight of Kili, who had so much of his uncle in him and didn’t even realise it.

Each of them hugged him in bone-crushing grasps, and after the fourth dwarf his ribs started aching, but he didn’t mind one bit. The last one was Balin, who gently patted him on his shoulder and chased his eyes with a glance: “There will be a great feast tonight, songs will be sung, tales will be told. And Thorin Oakenshield will pass into legend. I wish you could stay for a while longer, laddie, and celebrate with us.”

Bilbo overlooked the part where Balin asked him to stay: “I know that’s how you must honour him, but to me he was never that. To me he was… he was…” and there were many things that could have filled that gap, but Bilbo found himself unable to continue, unable to add the words that would confirm once again that it was over, that Thorin Oakenshield only _was_ , and never _would be_.

Balin seemed to understand and only bowed his head slightly.

Bilbo turned around once again to face the rest of the company: “If any of you are ever passing Bag End… Tea is at four; there’s plenty of it. You’re welcome, at any time. Oh, and don’t bother knocking” at these last words a small smile coloured his face and half of the company broke into small laughs followed by ill-disguised tears.

Bilbo knew he would miss every single one of them. But he knew it was time to go. There was nothing for him here.

So he turned on his heels, ready to start his lonely journey back home. And suddenly Gandalf was there, gently stroking the head of a white horse, next to which was a small pony, all of them seeming to have appeared out of thin air.

“Why, Master Baggins, did you really think I was going to let you walk such a long road alone? I have business in the West, and I must make haste. Let us leave now” said Gandalf with his signature sweet and mocking smile.

Bilbo found himself laughing lightly and shaking his head, once again marvelled at how well Gandalf could read his thoughts, before mounting on his pony, not without nearly falling flat on the ground in the attempt.

They started aboard their mounts leaving dwarves waving their hands behind them.

Only when a few leagues were between them and Erebor did Bilbo Baggins allow the tears to stream down his face.

* * *

 

 

 The journey back to the Shire was nothing like first one. The passage through Mirkwood was a safe and tranquil one, and hardly anything happened. Thranduil had sent an envoy to lead their way on the elvish path, even though Gandalf had scoffed lightly at the sight, as if the elves were implying he did not know his way in the forest. They saw no sign of the giant spiders the company had run into the first time, and even the typical heaviness of the tall trees seemed to have lifted a bit, somehow. Bilbo was not sure whether this was due to the fact that he was travelling without the dwarves or more probably to the defeat of the Necromancer in Dol Guldur, of which he had learnt from Gandalf and which seemed to have restored at least some of Mirkwood’s previous splendour, when it still bore the name of Greenwood.

Bilbo found himself missing the Company at every step his pony took. He missed their laughter and their jokes, and even though the Mirkwood had nearly lead them to their death and had surely not been a positive experience, he still craved their presence around him. He could barely think of how badly he would miss them once he was out of the forest and merrier memories would come to his mind.

Once they were close to the borders of Mirkwood, their elvish guide left them to return to the Woodland Realm, and Bilbo and Gandalf made their way to Beorn’s.

He greeted them with his usual grunting and scolding, but Bilbo knew he was happy to see them. No one had seen Beorn after the battle, and everyone supposed he had just hurried back to his house to tend to his animals, and so it was.

They did not stay long, only enough so that their mounts could rest and their provisions could be restocked. Soon enough they were on their way again, and Beorn was waving them goodbye – _“I see sadness and grief in your eyes, little bunny, but I do wish you to find peace. Be aware that my doors will always be open for you”_ – and Bilbo remembered the kind words the skinchanger had spent for him, while his eyes seemed to pierce him and look at his very soul.

Mere days after leaving Beorn, they passed the Carrock. Bilbo watched as the stony eyot trailed in front of his eyes, and felt his heart ache painfully at the memory of being laid at its top by the Eagles. The ghost of strong arms found its way around his body, arms he would never feel again…

_The world looks tremendously scary from the back of the Eagle Bilbo is clinging to for dear life. Hobbits do not like to be far from the ground, and they definitely do not like being suspended in the air with a huge empty void underneath them. However, Bilbo finds he’s not worrying about falling and cracking his head as much as he should. In fact, his heart is pounding in his ears, but fuelled by a quite different sight: the motionless body of Thorin Oakenshield sways lightly in the firm grip of one of the Eagles, and Bilbo finds his mind twisted with a fear he cannot name._

_When the eagles finally let them dismount on the top of a stony height, Bilbo sees Gandalf run his way to Thorin, and whisper a few words to his ear. The hobbit finds himself watching from some small distance and_ praying _this will not be the end of their leader._

_After a few moments of what feels like blind panic, Bilbo sighs in relief when Thorin opens his eyes and manages to get to his feet with some effort. But relief shortly evaporates when the hobbit sees the look of utter anger in Thorin’s eyes and realises it’s directed to him._

_“You! What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed!” Thorin spits out, flames in his eyes._

_Bilbo doesn’t know what to say. In fact, he doesn’t know why he did what he did. He doesn’t know why he threw himself between Thorin and the growling warg in a hopeless try to shield him. If anyone had told him back in Bag End anything like this would happen one day, he would have laughed like listening to the funniest joke. However, this has truly happened, and Bilbo can’t explain any of it._

_Thorin takes a few steps towards him._

_“Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild. That you had no place amongst us”_

_Bilbo lowers his gaze, realising he cannot bear to look at the king’s eyes while he disavows what the hobbit has tried to do for him. And he clenches his fists, feeling the dire need to punch the king’s face because all he was trying to do was save his life, and maybe he doesn’t know why but he knows he had to-_

_“I’ve never been so wrong, in all my life” and suddenly Thorin is sweeping him into a tight hug, covering him with his larger body and setting his head on Bilbo’s little shoulder and Bilbo can feel the surprised smile flourish on his lips while he hugs the king back after a moment of hesitation._

_Cheers come from the rest of the Company and Bilbo can see a small smile painting Gandalf’s usually serious face, and can’t help thinking how strangely safe he feels, and how he wishes this hug would never end and these arms would never loosen their grip…_

Bilbo shook his head vigorously. He could not afford to indulge in that memory. In fact, he did not know whether he would ever be able to without feeling his heart shatter in his chest.

He did not look at the Carrock again. Instead he kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead of him, filling his head with thoughts of Hobbiton and Bag End and home.

* * *

 

 

Walking the High Pass on the Misty Mountains was not a pleasant trip, but it was definitely much better than it had been a few months earlier. This time no thunderstorm hindered their way, and although they were advancing slowly in order to make sure their mounts would not slip on the tricky stone, they steadily made their way through the chain of steep mountains.

Soon enough they were safely on the other side, and were making for Rivendell.

Bilbo’s heart faltered at the sight of the beautiful elven city, and he remember how hard it had been to part from it to follow a bunch of dwarves towards what could be sure death. He wondered what would have become of him if he had chosen to take up on Lord Elrond’s offer and stayed in the peace and tranquillity of Rivendell. His adventure would have been over before even properly starting, and he presumably would not have known about the dwarves ever again. And somehow he knew that even with all the grief that he had got from this quest, he would not change it with anything in the world. He knew he would do it all over again, and not even the promise of a peaceful life in the most beautiful of cities could have prevented him from having his own fill of adventure.

As they didn’t want to take advantage of Elrond’s hospitality, they left a few days after their arrival, and Bilbo found he was not too sad at the thought. All he wanted was to finally get home, to set foot once again in Bag End, to walk through the rounded green door, in the hope of feeling safe and _warm_ once again.

It did not take long to finally get to the Shire, as they had been speeding up their mounts to make haste. They were close to the borders of Hobbiton when Gandalf suddenly halted, and Bilbo spun his mount around to see what had stopped him.

“It is time to say farewell, Bilbo Baggins” said Gandalf, dismounting from his tall white horse.

Bilbo felt his shoulders drop.

“Why Gandalf, won’t you allow yourself some rest as my guest? I would be rather happy to have you for some time in my little hobbit hole” said Bilbo, already knowing Gandalf wouldn’t be taking up on his offer. He found himself unhappy to part from him. Gandalf was the last strand that linked him with his adventure, with the company of dwarves and their king, and Bilbo feared he would get up one morning and realise it had only been a long dream.

“I am afraid I cannot indulge here, my dear Bilbo. I have urgent business I must tackle and delay will do me no good.” Said Gandalf, resignation in his voice.

“Alas, if you must. My invitation is valid for you too: feel free to pop up for tea whenever you want. Farewell, Gandalf” and he was already turning around, unwilling to watch as Gandalf galloped away from him.

“I know you have found something in the Goblin tunnels, Bilbo, and I have been keeping an eye on you ever since. Magic rings should not be used lightly” said Gandalf, and Bilbo turned once more to see the knowing look in his eyes. The hobbit felt the sudden impulse to deny he had found or used such thing, and found it rather odd. But in the end he just dropped his eyes, knowing there was no point in trying to hide he had ever had the ring.

“Well thank goodness you did. Farewell, Master Wizard” Bilbo said in the end.

While he was spinning his pony once more, something he could quite not name made him add: “You needn’t worry about that, hem, ring, it fell out of my pocket, during the battle, I lost it”

Gandalf inclined his head and Bilbo knew he didn’t believe one word.

“You’re a very fine person, Mister Baggins. And I’ve grown very fond of you. But you’re only quite a little fellow in a wide world, after all” and with that he turned around, sending a small shiver down Bilbo’s spine.

Bilbo watched as he mounted and hastily made his way out of the Shire. Leaving him alone.

* * *

 

 

Hobbiton hadn’t changed at all since the last time Bilbo had seen it. The town was full of life, bursting with busy hobbits and little fauntlings chasing each other and hiding behind bushes of roses.

When he made it to Bagshot Row and to Bag End he realised with disappointment that the inhabitants of Hobbiton thought him dead – he was now “the late Bilbo Baggins” – and no less than an auction was taking place to sell his belongings and, oh dear, his beloved house. He even spotted Lobelia Sackville-Baggins making her way out of the door with a good part of his possessions, including the silver spoons she had tried to smuggle years aback. She even tried to pretend she didn’t know him, claiming her cousin Bilbo Baggins had not been seen in the Shire for more than a year now and he was very possibly dead.

Bilbo found he could never quite bring himself to understand how she could have the nerve to say such things with him standing right in front of her.

A few hours and many words later, Bilbo was finally standing the entrance of his hobbit hole once again, and though it looked like it had been sacked only for everything to be put hastily back in place, he could feel the familiarity of it in his bones.

He found himself standing in the hallway for an indefinite amount of time, waiting for the wave of relief he knew would come.

Except it didn’t.

Bilbo had thought he would feel the warmth of his house in his bones. He thought the sight of his home, of being there once more, safe, away from danger and bad weather and having to ride a pony all day, would have filled the hollow in his heart, at least partly. He had been sure Bag End would ease the ache in his chest, that it wouldn’t make him yearn for _more_.

But it wasn’t so.

He dropped his pack and his cloak and made for the living room, and the kitchen, and his bedroom and then the guestrooms, desperately looking for something, looking for the familiar feeling of _home_ , and finding nothing but _empty_.

Bilbo made it back to the living room, and dropped to his knees in front of the cold hearth.

And suddenly a thought struck him – _he had never been further away from home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again. It took me fairly little time to write this chapter, even though it did take some effort. But I enjoyed it, and I hope you enjoyed it too. This chapter is quite long, and I'm not sure whether the next ones will be this long too. We'll see, I guess. Any sort of comment is always welcome and please do feel free to point out any of my English that doesn't make sense.   
> Thanks for taking the time to read!  
> UnheardMelody


	3. Chapter 2

The Shire was a nice place where to live. With its green hills and rolling fields, it was one of those places where people feel they can settle down. Where they can raise children, and grow old. Live a life of tranquillity and routine, in the company of their loved ones.

As a consequence, it was not a place for adventures. Anything that deviated from every day’s pattern was deemed disturbing. Hobbit were not the type of folk to like surprises: they preferred a life that flowed slowly, constantly, like a placid river that does not change its course nor its strength, yet flows on and on, steady.

Hobbits would give their daily affairs the uttermost importance: the trip to the market, the work in the fields and in the farms, the time spent with the family, were all activities conducted with the greatest simplicity and yet with the most careful accuracy.

And Bilbo Baggins now found he hated it all.

Since he had come back from Erebor, he had found himself incapable of appreciating the simplicity of a hobbit’s life. He could not bring himself to savour a chat with the baker at the market or a good afternoon spent under the sun on his comfortable porch. He had grown tired of _comfortable_.

Of course, he would still do what everyone else did. If he hadn’t, the hobbits would start to murmur, and he didn’t need any more of that, considering that he had already been declared at least strange, for disappearing for more than a year with a company of dwarves and a wizard. If he stopped following his daily routine, people would deem him completely mad. And maybe he was, going mad, that is. He suspected a certain company of dwarves had ruined him, and there was no going back.

Anyway, he would wake up fairly early every morning, have his two breakfasts – more for the sake of it rather than out of need, for he had grown accustomed to fewer meals while he was on the road – and then he would leave his house to take a walk, wearing a waistcoat matching his breeches. He would stop midway through his alleyway to have a few words with Hamfast Gamgee, who tended to his garden with the uttermost care.

He was a nice fellow. Many would judge him a simple hobbit, not too sharp-minded and rather plain; but Bilbo knew better than that. He found in Hamfast a good friend, who listened and gave surprisingly good advice; but most of all, he had noticed Hamfast was good at observing: he could watch, and made out many things from what he saw. And sometimes Bilbo could see that he worried for him; and he feared he had seen the hollow in Bilbo’s eyes. But he would never say a word about it, and Bilbo never expressed the desire to talk it out; and so Hamfast Gamgee remained the gardener Bilbo would talk to about the weather and this year’s harvest and the Thain’s new rules about the length of the grass along the public pathways.

After his chat with Hamfast, Bilbo would make his way to Hobbiton’s market, and there he would purchase what he needed for the day. He would exchange a few words with the merchants and dispense tea invitations when he met one of his many relatives. That is, excluding the Sackville-Bagginses; those, Bilbo would try his best to avoid. If he found himself in an unfrequented place, he would throw a quick glance around and then put his magical ring on before his distant cousins could spot him. If he was unable to do so, he would bravely face them for as little time as possible, especially Lobelia, who still looked at him as if he was a ghost who had come back from the afterlife to torment her, and Bilbo knew she was even trying to convince people that he wasn’t the true Bilbo Baggins. Not that he minded much: Lobelia was not renowned for her gentle words, and few hobbits actually believed her when she spoke in such harsh terms, for she had a tendency to do it with anyone. However, this did not make their meetings more pleasant, and Bilbo would always be happy when they finally parted ways to return to their own daily habits.

Walking around the market, at some point Bilbo would grow restless. He would crave open fields and roads that stretched on and on out of view. At that point, he would leave the market and walk around until he found the borders of the Shire and the main Road, and he would find himself gazing at it for a while, lost in thought. But in the end he would always go back on his steps, and walk back to Bag End.

There, he would have lunch, and spend the afternoon either smoking sitting on his porch or reading a nice book. Sometimes he would grow restless again, and he would take another walk and wander around without a destination.

To be honest, Bilbo didn’t know what it was with all this wandering. Perhaps he hoped that if he went closer to the borders of the Shire and the Old Forest, he might spot an elf passing by, among the trees. Or maybe he hoped that some adventure would find him, and he would be filled again with the feeling of excitement racing through his heart. But none of this ever happened, and Bilbo Baggins was getting sick and tired of waiting.

He was now conscious that all he was doing since he’d come back to Bag End was wait. Wait for the feeling of home to come back, wait for the comfort to seep in and make him feel at peace, wait for the hole in his heart to close itself.  

And the longer he waited, the more he knew those things would never come.

Night was the hardest part of the day. During the day, Bilbo would suppress all thoughts of the Company and his adventure, and quite successively, we might add. He would forbid himself any chance of indulging in his memories, pushing away any thought of how the smell of stew in the air in Hobbiton at lunch time reminded him of Bombur, or how a fauntling playing with his little wooden horse reminded him of Bofur’s toys, how a particularly rare book reminded him of Ori’s journal. And definitely avoided thinking of the dead.

But at night he found it so much harder to toss these thoughts away from his mind. In the dark of his room, while feeble blades of moonlight seeped from the windows, Bilbo eventually always went back to them. To Oin, Gloin, Ori, Dori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Balin, Dwalin, Kili, Fili. He missed them, he missed them all, and when the night came, he would find himself unable avoid trying to soothe the longing by indulging in the memories he had of them. He would remember the way they laughed so hard when they were drunk (and even when they weren’t), their total lack of manners when eating, their shouting and grumbling and mocking each other with dirty jokes. He also remembered how they protected each other and cherished each member of the company like they were all a big family. How brave and loyal they were.

And then he remembered Thorin.

Oh, so many things he remembered of Thorin. The first image that would come to his mind was the one of his deep blue eyes. Bilbo hoped he would never forget the exact shade they were. And then came the shape of his nose, and his cheekbones, and the way his short and dark beard framed his lips. His long braided hair streaked with silver.

Remembering Thorin was at the same time so very easy and so very painful. Bilbo could recall a thousand different glances he had had of the dwarf: the way sometimes he would gaze at the distance like he could always see the Lonely Mountain, even when it was still so far to the West; the way he would caress absent-mindedly Minty’s back; the way his eyes would indulge on his nephews before he closed them to sleep.

But with Thorin more than with anyone else, Bilbo would also remember all of his regrets. He regretted every single time he had been on the verge of speaking his mind with him, every time he had been close to hugging him, and then he had refrained from doing so for his stupid fear. And now he could never do it again, for Thorin was dead and he had died in his arms, and Bilbo had not been able to save him. That he regretted the most.

And every single night his thoughts would drift back to this, back to the very moment when Bilbo had seen the light bleed away from Thorin’s eyes. Tears would pool in his eyes. And when he finally got to sleep, he saw the same images in his dreams, carved in his mind like dwarvish runes on stone.

 

* * *

 

 

For nine months he waited. For nine months he stuck to his routine, hoping he would appreciate it again sooner or later. He never really managed to regain his respectability, but he knew this would take much longer than nine months; also, the more Bilbo thought about it, the more he found it in himself that he didn’t care. At the end of the day, he did not want a life of peace and tranquillity, not yet anyway. What was the point in struggling to make people believe he did?

And so summer passed, and his birthday came and went, uncelebrated for the second time in two years. The first time it had been overlooked in the fret of the quest, and this time Bilbo simply knew the ones he would truly like to celebrate it with would not be able to attend.

Autumn went by just the same way, and winter closed its icy fingers on the Shire, preventing Bilbo from going out so much and providing far less distraction. In was in those moments that a few times he considered the idea of starting to write about his adventure, to pour his thoughts on paper, in an attempt to have a collection of his memories. However, Bilbo found that there was something that was quite not right with it: in particular, did he want them to be just _memories_ yet? To write memories would mean to write something that was finished, that was over, concluded. And for some reason he could not bring himself to think that this was the end of his story, that nothing more would ever come from it, and nothing but memories would remain. And so he set this idea aside.

In even darker moments, he would draw Sting out of its sheath, and look at it in the gleaming light of the fireplace. He would gaze at the polished line of the blade and remember how many times it had protected him, and he could feel some sort of safety for a little while. A bit of warmth would seep in his blood, and for a brief time he felt whole again.

In all this, he was always careful not to throw a glance at the mithril shirt, lying at the bottom of a chest, wrapped in brown paper. Bilbo simply knew that the sight of Thorin’s gift would break him, and he suspected he could not suffer much more damage than he was already facing. He could remember too well the way the King had held it in front of him, proclaiming it a token of his friendship, and Bilbo’s heart had started beating furiously, his eyes beaming up, because for a moment he had seen the pureness back in Thorin’s eyes, the one he had before the dragon sickness clang to it and clawed it out of his features. He’d seen the old Thorin back then, and for a little while he had thought that there was still hope for him. In truth, he had never really stopped hoping, although it was always too hard to think about it. Even after all Thorin had done to him, after threatening his life, and even after crashing his heart in a thousand pieces, Bilbo had never truly given up on him. And in the end he had found he was right, only it had been too late to fix anything.

The mithril shirt would bring back all this and a lot more, and make it even more vivid than it already was. So Bilbo never unwrapped it, and buried it under useless things he never looked for.

They were nine months of empty days and long cold nights.

And then one night, everything changed.

Bilbo closed his eyes to the memory of Thorin’s lifeless body in his arms, and sleep took him in its cold hands. But then something new presented itself in Bilbo’s dreams. He expected to see void blue eyes, but the eyes he saw were full of life. And sorrow, and regret. And something Bilbo could quite not name. Their possessor was gazing at some long distance. The very image of Thorin Oakenshield looking at the horizon as he had done so many times in life made Bilbo’s heart skip a beat or two. It had been a long time since he had dreamed of him when he was alive.

Only then did Bilbo realise that they were in some sort of place quite far from the ground, pretty similar to… the side of a mountain. In fact, Bilbo found that the walkway he was standing on sort of looked similar to Erebor’s ramparts, directly above the gate, only these seemed cleaner, like no rubble had ever touched them, and no gash disfigured the gates.

Bilbo threw a tentative look over the walls, and realised that there was literally nothing beyond them. It was like a thick mist lingered over the ground, and covered everything for leagues and leagues. Thorin was staring at an empty horizon, and somehow Bilbo knew he was gazing West.

He took a better look at the dwarf, and saw that he was not wearing his finest kingly clothes, but the simple travel clothes he had worn the day he had died: a black jacket over a brown worn out shirt, closed on black breeches by a silver belt that bore Durin’s emblem.

The fallen King looked like he could see something beyond the mist, and suddenly a thought came to Bilbo’s mind – _it was the same look he had when he seemed to spot the Lonely Mountain in the distance when they were on the road_.

Bilbo wanted to call Thorin, he wanted to speak to him, but for some reason he knew the dwarf would not be able to hear him. So he just gaped at him from the few feet distance he was at, feeling tears pooling in his eyes.

“Bilbo”

The hobbit’s heart stopped at the sound of his name coming out of Thorin’s mouth. Bilbo looked at him, and for a moment he thought Thorin had been able to see him and was talking to him. But the King was still staring at the distance, his eyes now deep blue wells of sadness and… longing? Bilbo could not be sure. What he did know was that the sight made his heart ache in a way he did not think possible, and long for a bit of warmth.

Thorin dropped his gaze, defeated, and turned away from the ramparts. He did not turn again and seemed to disappear inside the mountain through some hidden door, and before he knew it Bilbo was battering the stone with his fists, tears now rolling down his cheeks, screaming and praying Thorin would come back out, _please_ …

He woke up in his bed in a pool of sweat, his eyes dry and his heart throbbing painfully.

Trying to catch his breath, he sat up, and gazed at the morbid light of dawn peeping from the rounded window.

A sudden thought came to his mind, something that perhaps had always been obvious but that he had not been able to grasp until now: he was tired of waiting, and he would wait no longer because there was no going back. And that was because something still linked him to a company of dwarves and their leader, something tangible, something that Bilbo thought dead but indeed dead was not. No, his story was not over yet. _There’s still something out there_.

His eyes darted to his bedside table: his golden ring had somehow ended up there, and was gleaming in feeble morning light.

_And you will help me find it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here we are again. This chapter is shorter, but I could not continue telling as the next part would have made it far too long. I am sorry for the wait, unfortunately this is exam time for me and I don't get to spare a lot of time to even just gather my ideas together a bit. I will still do my best to update soon though.  
> So, I would love to hear what you think, and I thank you all for taking the time to read.  
> UnheardMelody


	4. Chapter 3

 

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire was indeed ready to leave Bag End once more. He’d known since his eyes had landed on the golden band on his bedside table: there were answers he needed to find, and although he had no idea where, or how, they certainly wouldn’t wait for him in the Shire.

If he reflected on it, he’d known for a good while now. His restlessness, his longing for the road – for _adventure_ – they had a meaning. And it was not simply that he missed his friends or the feeling of being on the road, of doing something important; it was much more than that. It was a sensation he had not quite been able to pinpoint until now. It was the feeling of something left _unfinished_.

Deep inside, he’d known even when he was in Erebor. Even as he packed his few belongings hastily, something had made him loathe leaving the mountain. At the time, he had recognised in it the reluctance to leave his friends behind, to know that he would probably never see them again. Now he knew he had tried to suffocate the sensation of incompleteness with the hope he would feel whole again once he was home, the hope that his little hobbit hole would be enough to fill his heart, as it once was. But the feeling had never come, and now Bilbo knew what the reason was. The truth was that Bag End had never been anything more than an empty shell, at least since his mother had died. And how could he pretend that something so empty could fill the hole in his heart? Only now he could see how blind he had been.

Therefore, he was more than ready to set out again. However, he was not pragmatically ready yet. This time he meant to do things properly: he was not running out in the blue, leaving everything behind, just to come back and find out that this time the Sackville-Bagginses had managed to get their sticky hands on his house and all his possessions. No, this was not going to happen, and this is why he took a few days to organise himself and make sure Bag End would be held safely.

For this purpose, he chose the Gamgees. He knew that Hamfast had tried to prevent the auction from taking place the first time he had left, and that he had actually succeeded a couple of times before the Thain himself had decided that too long had passed and Master Baggins was surely dead and buried by now. For this reason, Bilbo could see no better candidate than Hamfast.

It was no easy business. At first, Hamfast was shocked to learn that Bilbo intended to leave again, and only nine months after coming back. He gaped at him, expecting him to say he was pulling a prank on him and he wasn’t going anywhere. Bilbo sighed and explained that he was, in fact, leaving, and that he did not know when (or if, for the matter, but Hamfast didn’t need to know that) he would come back, and therefore intended to entrust the house to Hamfast in order to avoid surprises or trouble of any sort. Even harder than convincing him that he was truly departing, was to make him agree to take care of the house: not because he didn’t want to do it, but because he feared he would not be able to be a good keeper.

“Nonsense, Master Hamfast, you have been taking excellent care of my garden for years now, and I am sure you will do as great a job with the rest of the house. Besides, I do not trust anyone else with Bag End apart from you, so will you please accept this offer of mine?” Bilbo replied at what he considered Hamfast’s silly doubts. At this praise the poor gardener bowed his head slightly in a humble gesture, and solemnly swore to take meticulous care of Bag End.

Quite satisfied with himself, Bilbo then returned to Bag End and started packing. This time he made sure he took everything that could be useful. He was so not leaving without his pocket-handkerchief once more!

Although he had entrusted the house to the Gamgees, he knew it could not be an ultimate solution. Facing facts, he did not know what he was doing or where he was going exactly. He had some sort of a plan and some ideas about his itinerary, but everything depended on what he would find on the road. Therefore he needed to face the possibility that he might not come back to Bag End at all, this time. After all, he was travelling alone, without a company of dwarves or a wizard to watch his back, and had to accept that anything could happen. Keeping this in mind, he wrote his will, and had Hamfast Gamgee and his wife stand as witnesses of it. In the document, he stated that would he not return in ten years’ time, his house and all his possessions would be inherited by his cousin Drogo Baggins and his wife, Primula Brandybuck. He had long thought about it, and had discovered that of all his relatives, Primula and Drogo were the ones who were dearest to him. He had no children of his own, and knew he probably never would, whereas the couple was freshly married and would soon build a family; he hoped that in the unfortunate case of his death, they could give new life to Bag End, and restore it to the purpose it was meant to have: being the hearth of a family and a place of merry gathering.

Will signed and pack ready, not much was left to be done. The morning meant for his departure, Bilbo opened the chest at the end of his bed and drew his mithril coat out of it. He had avoided doing so until the last minute for obvious reasons, but now he unwrapped it and wore it under his clothes. The feeling of the light yet impenetrable piece of armour on his body made him shiver, as a wave of memories flooded his mind. It occurred to him that the shirt had not been gifted to him to be forgotten, gathering dust in a chest. That shirt was the most tangible thread that still linked him to Thorin Oakenshield, and for all that it hurt to think about him, Bilbo knew it had been a mistake to ignore its existence. His bond with Thorin was something he wasn’t ready to give up yet, and the shirt now reminded him he had something to find, and gave him courage.

Outside of his green door, Bilbo gave a last look to his house, and realised that he didn’t feel as sad as he had expected. He had missed it dearly so many times in the course of his adventure, and many days the thought of seeing his hobbit hole again had been the only thing capable of keeping him going. He had fought to go back to his house, and he had regretted ever leaving it. In the end, his wishes had shifted to something else, and Bag End had only been the consolation price, for what he truly wanted, he had lost.

And now, he found that the consolation price was not enough, and it was without loathing that he left his cosy hole, perhaps for good.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo knew that the very first destination of his freshly started adventure had to be Rivendell. There were several reasons for this. First, he had not spent there as much time as he had wished to. He had found it fascinating, probably the most beautiful place he’d ever seen, and it had earned a place in his heart. If Lord Elrond’s offer was still valid, he would gladly stay there for a while. Secondly, he hoped to do some research. On what, he was not sure yet, but he knew Rivendell had a great library, and it would be utterly wonderful if Bilbo could explore it thoroughly, even lose himself there. And lastly, at the back of his mind Bilbo cultivated the possibility to tell Lord Elrond about his dream, and maybe receive some advice from him. On this point, Bilbo was fairly dubious, for although his dream had had a great impact and had been the main cause for his decision, he knew it could look like he had just gone crazy and decided to look for Eru knows what based on a vague dream he had had.

Nonetheless, Bilbo believed Rivendell held great opportunities for him, and therefore decided he would travel there first.

The feeling of being on the road again was downright electrifying: Bilbo felt the weight in his chest lighten for the first time in months, knowing he was out on a quest again. It mattered little that he did not yet know what exactly he was looking for, and that he dared not hope he could retrieve that that he had lost.

Memories of his first adventure filled his head, and he found himself remembering the hasty run out of his house that had cost him his pocket-handkerchief and had won him far more valuable things. He had been so excited and yet so full of dread, his Tookish side fully awake for the first time in decades, and his Baggins side protesting against it all and being sharply silenced.

Now he was excited again and also a bit light headed, but also more conscious of what this adventure of his could lead him to. And yet he could not stop himself from thinking that it was worth it.

It only took him a few days to get to Bree, where he decided to halt briefly so that his pony could rest, not to mention his poor backside: his body had already forgotten what it felt like to ride all day. Although he did not particularly like riding, he had had to admit that it would save him a great deal of time and labour, and so he had purchased a small yet sturdy pony in Hobbiton a few days before leaving. He had called her Viola, and had soon found out that she was a clever and untiring beast, although she could be a bit enterprising at times.

Bilbo left her in the hands of the groom of the Prancing Pony, trusting him to take good care of her, and made his way inside the inn, where he paid for a few nights in a hobbit-sized room. It was indeed a nice and cosy room, featuring even a round door and round windows, and close to the ground.

The hobbit spent a couple of days wandering about the small town, keenly observing how in Bree men and hobbits managed to not only put up with one another, but also cooperate to make everyone’s life easier. And although Bilbo had always found men quite terrifying, even for their stature alone, he saw that in Bree hobbits were perfectly comfortable around humans, and that the latter treated the former as equals, not underestimating them because of their size.

Before long, his stay had come to its end, and Bilbo found himself on the road again.

It took him a while longer to get to Rivendell, but his travels were devoid of any trouble, for once, and in the end he got to the elven city safely.

Its stunning beauty once more enchanted the hobbit, and he felt a sense of peace, something that had not been part of his heart for quite long now, at the thought that he could now fully enjoy this truly marvellous dwelling.

Lord Elrond welcomed him courteously, a knowing smile on his face, as if he had always known the hobbit would pay his realm another visit. He offered Bilbo the most comfortable guestroom in his palace, and bid him stay as long as he wished. He gave him access to any place he should like to visit, informing his subjects that the hobbit was to be allowed wherever he wished.

Bilbo was amazed and a bit embarrassed by all of Lord Elrond’s kindness, yet it made him so very happy, and mostly excited and impatient to explore and wander in the great city.

Long days passed like mere blinks, and Bilbo found he never tired of Rivendell. His life was once more full of interesting and stimulating experiences, and every day held something to discover. Most of his time, Bilbo would spend in the library. It was a wonder he had long dreamed of, and what he had found had managed to even exceed his expectations. Rivendell’s library was a safe haven for a good part of the culture of all Middle Earth, and it housed several thousands of books and scripts and documents. Each of the works was preserved and taken care of by the librarians, elves who had been chosen for their love of the written word and who had been taught how to handle the volumes so that they wouldn’t undergo the spoiling that time brought. Bilbo was always very careful to do as he had been told and treat the books with care and thoughtfulness, although he would have done it even if it had not been imposed by the strict rules of the library. When he looked at one of the volumes, he felt his heart swell with awe and respect for the effort that had been instilled in it by its writer.

When he wasn’t in the library, Bilbo was usually out and about, exploring the great elven city, contemplating the high and curling architecture in its polished beauty. Even though everything seemed so big compared to him and had not definitely been built to match his size, he could see in it the grandeur and the legacy of one of the last of the great elven realms of Middle Earth. The elves had managed to spectacularly interweave their construction with all that nature had to offer them, and so Bilbo could only contemplate how perfectly trees would bend to form intricate arcades or how harmoniously stone could blend with wood and leaves.

The curious hobbit also loved to talk to the elves, and soon he started learning Sindarin, for elves were much less secretive than dwarves concerning their language. Lord Elrond himself would dedicate time to talking to him, and Bilbo could do nothing but admire the great wisdom of the elven lord.

Days had soon turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and if at the beginning Bilbo had been itching to find answers to his innermost questions, he had grown accustomed to soothing his curiosity towards many things of the world he had never had the opportunity to witness. For a while, he had also intended to tell Lord Elrond about his dream and seek his counsel, but then he had set this thought aside, for fear he might lose Elrond’s favour and be regarded as queer and downright mad.

During his stay in Rivendell, Bilbo started to think that he might find there the peace he thought he would never regain, not when his questions were still unanswered. A sense of tranquillity pervaded the elven city, and if it was not that completeness that his soul yearned for, it was still something that managed quite nicely to stem the hollow in his heart. He nearly contemplated spending the rest of his days in Rivendell.

Nearly.

Only nearly, because in the end something happened that reminded him what the true purpose of being there was. And if in the last months the importance of it had been stretched, and it had grown sort of opaque, like he could not quite recall what in the first place had made it so important, well, now he could see it clearly once more.

One day, Bilbo was crouched on a pillow in some far corner of the library, a sight that impressed no elf anymore, for it was so common it by then went nearly unnoticed. His nose was deeply buried in a thick and heavy-looking volume, which showed clear signs of its age despite the loving care of the librarians. It was a book about legends and myths of Middle Earth, and Bilbo couldn’t help but finding it altogether fascinating, and he had already read through lunch time and afternoon, and went on in the dim warm light of sunset.

He was approaching one of the last chapters of the book, when one of the myths drew his attention more than the others. It was a legend about dwarves, which was in itself interesting, as the myths concerning that particular folk had been few throughout the whole book, and sparse were the works in the library that spoke of dwarves, for their secretive nature and lack of opening to other races.

This legend was rather short, only a few lines, and untitled. However, it puzzled Bilbo greatly, and is therefore here reported.

_“The Children of A_ _üle for their hunger were known, and always their stone hearts yearned for more. To dark shores the Deathless turned his gaze, and mad greed took hold of his soul. Control he wished to bestow upon what cannot be bent, and beyond the living he meant to reach. The freedom of his people he gave to shorten the wait._

_But forever more would his folk be bound in darkness and the Un-dying recognised the aberration in what he had contributed to create. Yet such deed could not be undone, for thick shadows had blossomed from it. Thus he that many a life had seen withdrew what had been his to give and in the depths of the delf confined what was not in his power to crush, the immortal blade crippled yet unyielding. Such it would stay until the end of its lord, and a great weakness would long plague the masters of stone.”_

Confusion had been the very first feeling in Bilbo’s mind. The legend appeared to be fairly cryptic, which made it all the more interesting. The hobbit had immediately realised it referred to dwarves, for Aüle (or Mahal, as they called him) was their creator. But what came after that, was very unclear to him. At first, he had thought that the legend spoke about gold sickness. Words like “hunger” and “mad greed” had lead him to this guess. However, what came after had discouraged his idea, for Bilbo understood that what the dwarves wanted was much more than simply glittering gold. The legend seemed to speak of a power of some sort, something that went _beyond the living_. This hypothesis seemed to find confirmation in the next sentence, where “the Deathless” (and who would that be?) was said to have given away freedom to “shorten the wait”. Now, Bilbo might have known little about dwarves, but during his time with them, he had learnt that they believed that after their deaths they would take up the place that Mahal had created for them in the Halls of Mandos, also called the _Halls of awaiting_. So, if his interpretation was correct, the legend spoke about some power over death.

Now, this realisation struck him like a punch in the face. Did this mean that there was a way to have some sort of control over death? And not just anybody’s death, but a _dwarf’s_ death? His brain was quick to take up the hint and his heart missed a beat. What if a way existed to bring someone _back_?

Bilbo shot to his feet, eyes glittering with a strange light. He had many questions to ask, for the second part of the legend appeared to be far more obscure than the first one, and he knew exactly where to go.

This myth could hold the key to the repair of his biggest regret, and he would find his answers, wherever he would need to go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooookay. Hello people.  
> I apologise for the wait. This week I had my first two exams, and more are to come, so I can't promise great speed in these days of desperation. But hopefully I will be back to you soon enough.  
> Now, Bilbo is on the road again, and he seems to like it. And I hope that you, my good readers, will want to join me and him in this journey.  
> I did some research before writing this story. There are going to be a lot of new elements, however a lot is going to follow the history of dwarves as reported in Tolkien's works, with some variations.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you will let me know your opinion about it (especially about my lame English!).  
> Thanks for getting to this point.  
> Until next time,  
> UnheardMelody


	5. Chapter 4

Bilbo’s heart was pounding in his chest while he walked through the long corridors of Rivendell’s royal palace. For once, the halls seemed to stretch for far too long for Bilbo’s liking; his short hobbit legs did not gift him with much speed, and he was practically trotting about, in the attempt to make his way quickly to Lord Elrond’s rooms. Besides, the heavy book his arms were clutching to didn’t really speed up his pace, and threatened his balance every time his big feet slipped on the polished stone floors.

After a few minutes of mad walk through corridors and interminable stairs, he finally he found himself facing the two guards at each side of the doors that lead to the lord’s quarters. Panting, he asked the guards whether the lord could receive him, and one of them quirked his eyebrow in a perplexed frown; nevertheless, the elf disappeared briefly behind the finely decorated door, and came back small minutes later, stating that Lord Elrond was indeed willing to receive him. Bilbo thanked the guard and hastily made his way through the door, finding himself in a large antechamber. Elrond stood near the empty fireplace, a curious expression painted on his fine features.

“Ah Master Baggins, please come in, I was just preparing for dinner” the lord welcomed him politely, gesturing for him to come forward.

Bilbo complied uncertainly, arms still clutching the book like his life depended on it. And in some ways it did, Bilbo thought.

“I understand there is something important you want to talk to me about? Something that could not wait until our evening talk?” continued the lord, a kind smile on his face.

Bilbo felt himself flush at these words, and his Baggins side yelling inside him. He had been downright impolite, if not rude, crashing in Lord Elrond’s room at this unlikely hour, not even bothering to change his rumpled and dust-stained clothes. Suddenly it occurred to him that maybe he had been a little too impatient. But he was here now and there was no point in going away to come back later, so Bilbo swallowed his embarrassment and took a few steps forward.

“Yes, hem, I apologise, my lord, for the unlikely timing of my visit. But there is something I would like to show you and, if possible, ask you a few questions about” Bilbo managed to formulate.

“Then speak up my friend. I assume it has something to do with that tome you brought with you?” asked the elf, kind smile still in place.

“So it is my lord. I have spent most of my day reading this book that I found in the library, dealing with great myths and legends of Middle Earth, and oh, it was so interesting and so very nice to read and I learnt about many a thing about so many races…” Bilbo’s voice had started to drift off. “But, hem, never mind that, my lord, the point is, I came across this weird legend concerning dwarves, and I have found it is quite cryptic and hard for me to understand, and I was wondering if you might like to help me with it, that is, in case you are not too busy” Bilbo managed to stop his ranting, his breath still a little fast from his run down the halls.

Lord Elrond raised his eyebrows, clearly showing his curiosity.

“If I am able to explain this mysterious piece of legend to you, I will, Master Baggins” stated the elf politely.

At that, Bilbo made his way towards the richly carved wooden table at the other side of the room, followed by Elrond, and opened the book on the page that hosted the legend.

“It is this myth here” said Bilbo, pointing at the few lines at the top of the page.

Lord Elrond skimmed through the words quickly, a focused expression dawning on his face. Finally he raised his head, and his frown seemed to have deepened.

“This tale appears to be quite cryptic, indeed. I have to confess that I have never heard of such a legend.” Elrond spoke slowly, his lips stretched in a thin line.

Delusion came upon Bilbo, and his shoulders sagged in slightly.

“Oh. I thought maybe you would know something about it. It seems to be speaking of some kind of artefact, with a sort of power over death, if I am not mistaken. However, the last few lines are very unclear to me.” Bilbo raised his gaze towards the lord’s face, daring to let a hint of hope shine through his eyes.

The elf appeared in deep thought and a serious expression took place on his face.

“I see what you mean, Master Baggins. The myth does seem to hint at the world of the dead. However, as I said, the second part of the tale is as obscure to me as it is to you.”

At these words Bilbo couldn’t help but notice something queer in Lord Elrond’s expression and in the way he looked down at him. All of a sudden his posture seemed to have stiffened slightly, and Bilbo sensed something that he would have thought could be reticence in the elf’s tone, hadn’t he known that Elrond wouldn’t lie to him. Because he wouldn’t, right?

“Ah, I see. It is just, you see, it had seemed to me that the legend might hint that there was, in fact, a way to bring someone back” Bilbo did one last desperate try, in hope Lord Elrond would reveal something more or would suddenly remember something.

But this last statement of Bilbo’s seemed to have a rather weird effect on the elf lord, who narrowed his eyes and observed him carefully for a brief moment.

“There exists no such thing, Bilbo Baggins, do not fool yourself. And even if it existed, it would be something evil, and obscure, and one would do well to avoid it, for it is not in our power nor it is wise to play with lives. And for what reason, Master Baggins, are you so interest in said artefact, if I may ask?” the tone of the elf’s words was rather stern, and it made Bilbo flinch and step back slightly.

“Oh, n-nothing, my lord, I was purely curious, and this brief tale caught my attention, that’s all.” even as he said them, Bilbo knew these words were nothing but a lie, for he had painfully recognised the sting of hope that had blossomed in his heart at the realisation that the legend could be revealing the existence of something that held death under its command. However, he could not let Lord Elrond know this, for he would have thought him mad, and suddenly he was very glad he had not spoken to him about his dream.

In turn, the elf lord stared at him for a few moments, his gaze piercing Bilbo’s eyes. The little hobbit felt utterly naked under that look, like Lord Elrond was unveiling his very soul and the deepest secrets of his heart. In the end, the elf seemed to accept his words, although Bilbo knew better than to think he had fooled him.

“I see. Well, I am sorry I cannot satisfy more of your curiosity. If you will excuse me, I now need to get ready to join my people in the great hall for dinner, Master Baggins.” said Elrond, and Bilbo sighed internally, although the elf’s expression remained serious.

“Of course, my lord, I am sorry I bothered you with my silly hobbit-y curiosity. I presume I will see you in the Great Hall, then” and with this Bilbo closed the book with a soft thud and made his way to the door, suddenly impatient to avoid himself further embarrassment.

“You certainly will my friend. Ah, and, my dear hobbit – and at this Bilbo halted briefly in front of the door – I would like to remind you that it is not so wise for one’s mind to dwell in thoughts of coming and going from the land of the living. After all, the way of time is only one, and that is to say, to go on.” Bilbo stiffened imperceptibly at the words.

“I will do my best to remember that, my lord” and with these words, he all but ran out of the door and down the corridor again, clinging to the old volume and mind racing a thousand miles an hour.

 

* * *

 

That night, in his chambers, Bilbo felt like a heavy weight had settled in his stomach. For the whole duration of his meal with the elves, he had felt observed, but every time he raised his eyes from his plate, everyone around him was minding their own business, conversing and commenting on the various dishes. Bilbo even dared sending a few looks in Lord Elrond’s direction, but he always appeared to be deeply in conversation with some elf or simply lost in thought and gazing at the distance.

The hobbit thought back to the conversation he had had just a few hours earlier with Elrond, and he couldn’t help thinking about how _wrong_ it had felt. He had not expected such a reaction from the normally so calm and composed elven lord. He had seen something akin to worry flashing briefly in his eyes, and that had puzzled him even more.

And then there had been that feeling of reticence, like there was something that Elrond was not telling him, or better, something he wasn’t telling him everything about. This confused him the most. Why would Elrond lie to him on such a matter? After all, for all the elf knew, Bilbo might simply be interested in the possible interpretations of dwarvish tales. Than what was the point in denying so pointedly having any knowledge of what Bilbo was curious about? It was clear to the hobbit that the lord had no will whatsoever to talk about it.

What if there was a reason, behind Elrond’s recalcitrance? A sudden thought struck him: what if the elven lord wanted the artefact for himself? After all, it would only make sense that, seeing such great power could be wielded, one would try to gain it for himself…

Bilbo shook his head violently, looking upon his mind with disbelief. Where had that thought even come from? Bilbo would never suspect the good intentions the elven lord had towards him, let alone towards the sake of Middle Earth. He ought to feel ashamed of even thinking of something like that.

No, Lord Elrond certainly wasn’t trying to steal the artefact from him. Bilbo knew he truly believed in what he had said, that one should not wish to meddle with life and death for it was dangerous business. And Bilbo did agree with him, and yet he could not help being drawn by the call of salvation that the possession of such an object could entail.

Once more, Bilbo shook his head. He had had enough of riddles and cryptic statements for one night. Moreover, he felt exhausted, his head aching slightly, probably as a result of a day spent with his eyes glued to the pages of a book. He decided to set aside any thought of legends and myth, and to get some well deserved rest.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Bilbo found that he had not rested very well. His sleep had been troubled, strange dreams he remembered nothing about coming and going in the early hours before dawn.

Immediately after breakfast, Bilbo decided to take the heavy collection of myths to the library, and try to gain some more understanding of the dwarvish legend. After all, he not only was a stubborn hobbit, but he also wouldn’t let this opportunity slip through his fingertips without first analysing it thoroughly.

The first thing he did once he got there was copy the tale down on a piece of parchment, so that he wouldn’t have to carry the book around with him and he could return it to the shelf where he had found it. Moreover, he wanted to take note of any further discovery he might make, and write down what he knew so far.

The few lines laid out in front of him, Bilbo focused once more on the legend, reading it for the nth time. The very first sentence seemed clear enough: the dwarves were known to be greedy and ambitious. The second sentence was already a bit more mysterious: “ _To dark shores the Deathless turned his gaze, and mad greed took hold of his soul._ ” Bilbo still could not figure out who the “Deathless” might be. He took note to do some research about it. Now, the reference to “dark shores” clearly hinted at an evil of some sort. It looked like whoever had created the artefact, had needed to turn to a darker power to gain help. This was quite evident throughout the whole poem, for the word “darkness” recurred, and the creation was later defined an “aberration”.

“ _Control he wished to bestow upon what cannot be bent, and beyond the living he meant to reach. The freedom of his people he gave to shorten the wait._ ” This plainly meant that the “Deathless” desired to control the world of the dead, and that he had succeeded to do so according to the legend, although he had apparently had to pay a high prize: “the freedom of his people”, whose meaning Bilbo wasn’t too sure about, as for as far as he knew dwarves were not enslaved to any dark power. For this reason, just as cryptic appeared to be the next part: “ _But forever more would his folk be bound in darkness and the Un-dying recognised the aberration in what he had contributed to create._ ” At this point Bilbo recognised in the “Un-dying” the same person as the “Deathless”, for they practically meant the same thing. Which by the way brought him to think about something else. If this person was already “deathless”, then what would he need control over death for? His confusion grew even greater, so he moved on to the next sentence.

“ _Yet such deed could not be undone, for thick shadows had blossomed from it._ ” Apparently the “Deathless” had realised he had created something dark, and had tried to destroy it. But things seemed to have spiralled out of control, and they had had to find an alternative solution. “ _Thus he that many a life had seen withdrew what had been his to give and in the depths of the delf confined what was not in his power to crush, the immortal blade crippled yet unyielding. Such it would stay until the end of its lord, and a great weakness would long plague the masters of stone.”_ This was the most confusing passage of all. It looked like the Deathless had done something that had “crippled” the artefact, and that he had then hidden it somewhere. Now what in Arda was a delf? Bilbo would have find that out too. A very important element was that the object appeared to be, in fact, some sort of blade. Could it be a sword? Bilbo was not sure. What was clearer was that the thing could not be destroyed until its “lord” died too. This puzzled Bilbo to no end, for this lord was yet another figure he had to find out about. Perhaps it referred to the dark power that had been needed to create the artefact? The hobbit could not be sure.

Bilbo sighed tiredly. So much in the tale was unclear that he didn’t even know where to start. But more important, he could feel that there was definitely something dark to it. The legend did not speak of evil lightly, and warned that the creation of this object had brought a shadow upon the dwarves, and part of their freedom had been sacrificed, even though Bilbo still hadn’t figured out how this had affected them.

The hobbit felt a shiver roll down his spine. He had to think this out carefully. Did he truly want to unveil such great evil, admitting he could find out more about it? Was he prepared to face the consequences that awakening such power could bring upon him? Maybe he should have listened to Lord Elrond and not let his mind indulge in anything of the sort.

On the other hand, he could not ignore the call that this legend had on him. If a chance existed to bring his loved ones back, would he truly be able to toss it away? Would he ever forgive himself not trying everything he could have to retrieve what he had lost? He couldn’t help but think he was only living the miserable reflection of life, it had been so for more than a year, and now he could see a chance at escaping that. The truth was that the name that he couldn’t bear to think, let alone pronounce, the face that haunted his nights, the hollow in his heart that seemed to spread rather than heal – he wasn’t sure he could endure these things for much longer. Better, he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to.

He had no choice. The love in his heart compelled him to at least try and take the opportunity. Back at the top of Ravenhill, Bilbo would have given anything, paid any price, to save what was doomed. That had not changed, and in the end it was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! I had surely not expected to be back to you this soon. But right after writing chapter 3, a mad urge got hold of me and I had to write. I guess inspiration struck me! Or maybe I was so willing to procrastinate studying for my exams that my mind couldn't focus on reality and had to travel to Middle Earth... Who knows!  
> Anyway, we are starting to see the main thread that will lead us through this story. I really hope what I write won't sound completely out of place and impossible to you.  
> The main purpose of this note though, is to thank you. I want to thank evey person on this website, because thanks to AO3, I got back to writing. I had stopped for a long time, and I felt blocked, and like something was swelling up inside me, probably all those unshed words I wasn't able to pour on paper. But I am back on the road again, and oddly enough in English, a language I never thought I would truly be able to express my thoughts with. Writing is a truly wonderful journey. So thank you to all those people who wrote stories in the first place, and gave me the possibility to wander through Middle Earth once more, and then to choose my own path. Thank you to those who are reading this story, for your patience, and your silent support.   
> As always, I renew my invitation to express your thoughts, whatever they might be.  
> Thank you everyone for reading throught this little rant of mine :D  
> UnheardMelody


	6. Chapter 5

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire was on the road once again. It was nearly odd to think that it was now the third time in less than two years that he was crossing the Misty Mountains, after living in his hobbit hole for more than fifty years. Sometimes he felt like he was now a completely different person from the respectable bachelor who had been spending his days out and about in Hobbiton or smoking his pipe on his front porch, and wondered how the hobbit he was now could have been buried beneath for all this time. But then he supposed he had indeed changed, and truly was not the same person as before. He had finally got to see what the world could offer him, and honestly, how could his hobbit hole still be enough? And another part of him, not much smaller, but somewhat held back for the sake of his own sanity, whispered that when you have met some people, and seen some things happen, you cannot possibly ever be the same. One April night, what seemed now like ages ago, a wizard had told him that if he’d ever come back from his adventure, he would not be the same again. At the time, Bilbo would never have thought he could be so damn right.

Indeed, what the wizard had said had proved to be more than true, and further proof of this was that Bilbo was now on the back of a pony (his pony, of whom Lord Elrond’s grooms had taken care more than well) climbing his way up the High Pass, heading to what seemed destined to become a whole new adventure, which somehow sounded even more desperate than the first one, and that said a lot about it. He had very little to rely on, nearly nothing truly, for an old legend found in a dusty and cryptic book could hardly be defined anything reliable to set a quest upon. However, this stage of the quest consisted really in finding out more about said myth, and Bilbo hoped he would have more information when he was done consulting a good deal of sources.

That, he had realised, could not be done in Rivendell, and this was the reason why he had left. He had thoroughly enjoyed his stay in the Last Homely House, and in the months of his prolonged visit he had nearly come to the decision to spend the rest of his days there. But the discovery of the legend had abruptly brought him back to reality, where the hole in his heart could no longer be ignored. If he looked deep inside himself, Bilbo knew that, would there have been no hope at all, he would eventually manage to go on with his life. Maybe he would never be happy, because the only one who could give him true happiness had lost the light in his eyes on a cold day at the top of a hill; but at some point the ache in his heart would ease, the rough edges of its broken parts smoothed out, not quite glued together but not as sharp as they were now. He knew he could have hoped for some sort of serendipity, and maybe for the forgiving touch of time on his memory, and remembering wouldn’t feel so painful anymore. But now he knew that the feeling of something left unfinished that was relishing in his heart was not something so impalpable after all. Now he was aware that there was indeed something he had no knowledge about and if such thing existed that could even just hold the faint promise of salvation, he could not set his heart to rest.

In a word, now there was hope. And not even Rivendell, with its serene and peaceful atmosphere, could rival the call of adventure and being truly able to do something about the grief in his soul.

At first, Bilbo had tried to look for more information about the legend in the elvish library. However, his research had proven utterly useless, for dwarves were rarely the object of elvish works and literature, and they were only briefly mentioned in relation to elves, for example for taking part in various wars. The only useful result he had had from days and days of reading through countless tomes had been the discovery of who the “Deathless” was. One late night, Bilbo had been drowsily flicking through the pages of a book that spoke about the creation of Middle Earth and its inhabitants. Many times he had been on the verge of falling asleep, for many things he already knew about, like the creation of elves at the hands of Iluvatar and the secret longing of Aüle to give life to something himself, resulting in the creation of the dwarves. And exactly there the volume mentioned the names of the first fathers of the dwarves, and among them that of Durin.

Now, Bilbo knew little about Durin, basically only that he was indeed the most famous progenitor of the dwarves and that Thorin and Fili and Kili were his direct descendants. But Durin soon became very important to him, as the book briefly mentioned that the Dwarves believed that Durin reincarnated through the ages, coming back from time to time as one of his descendants, and was therefore also known as Durin the Deathless. This was indeed a great discovery he had made, for it had finally allowed him to understand who was supposed to have created the artefact. However, until now Durin was said to have reincarnated a total of six times, and at the moment there was no way to know which reincarnation was the legend actually talking about. It could be guessed that it was unlikely to be Durin I or even Durin II, for the legend spoke of someone who had lived many lives, and two was not such a big number, now was it? Still, he could not be sure, for lifetimes were not something to be counted like apples, and he couldn’t really dismiss any option.

In any case, Bilbo had been heartened by the discovery, and he had continued looking for more details with even further fervour. Unfortunately, he had not been able to find anything else that could help him, and after a time he had realised the elvish library could not really satisfy his need of knowledge of dwarven history and lore.

With this in mind, leaving had not been hard. After all, he could always go back to the elven realm if his quest revealed infructuous. Telling the elves had been a different business though, and Lord Elrond had proved particularly reluctant to let him leave. And Bilbo was not even sure he understood the reason. The last conversation he had had with the elven lord the night before setting out was still lingering in his mind, and it made him frown in light confusion at the thought.

_“So, this is your last night in Rivendell, is it not, Master Baggins?” Lord Elrond’s voice is soft and kind, as usual, although something akin to worry flashes briefly in his eyes._

_“It is indeed, my lord. I deeply thank you for your kind hospitality; Rivendell and its people will always have a special place in my heart” replies Bilbo, eyes fixed on the placid river flowing beneath Lord Elrond’s private terrace. The sight of the clear water beneath him always manages to give him a sense of calmness and peace that is so hard for him to come by in these days. Many a night he has come to this very balcony with Lord Elrond, words between them flowing as freely as the stream below, moonlight casting soft shadows around them._

_Lord Elrond sighed. “And I see you are still decided to leave us. I have to admit I was hoping you would gift me with your company for a while longer.”_

_“Rivendell is a truly magnificent place, my lord. You and your kin have welcomed me warmly, and for that I am grateful. During the months I spent here I managed to find the closest thing to peace that I could possibly hope to get.”_

_“And yet you will not stay” Lord Elrond inclines his head._

_“No, I will not” replies Bilbo, softly but firmly._

_“I am sorry you did not find true peace here, Master Baggins. Rivendell has soothed many a soul in its long years. But I see that perhaps the trouble in your soul is beyond the power of elves.”_

_Bilbo turns his head, surprised. He did not expect Lord Elrond to read him so easily. In turn, the elven lord delivers him a knowing smile._

_“I have an idea of what lingers in your heart, Bilbo. And I am thinking maybe it will do you some good to see your friends again. After all, you might have dreamed of elves all your childhood, but dwarves were the ones who breached your heart, were they not?” Bilbo doesn’t flinch when Elrond calls him by his first name; after all, he realises, he has long considered him a friend. Still, he feels dumbstruck by the accuracy of his words. His mother’s tales had always been about elves, surrounded by magic and gifted with immortality and unearthly grace. Dwarves are diametrically opposite to elves: unruly, loud, completely lacking any type of manners, but also brave, and loyal, and warm and so very true, flesh and bones and heart. And maybe that’s why the people he cares the most about in this world have come to be dwarves, he realises. Elves, with their grace and flawlessness, are fascinating to him and have always been, and yet he will always perceive a certain distance with them, like admiring a cold star in the sky. But dwarves, dwarves are so very real, and if there is one thing Bilbo has learnt from his adventure, is that the bonds he has created with them have penetrated deeply under his skin, they have inked his soul like a tattoo needle._

_In the end, all Bilbo can do to reply to Elrond’s words is send a small smile in his direction, eyes quickly diverting and finding their focus on the river again._

_And then Elrond seems to suddenly remember something, and abruptly turns his head towards Bilbo, his eyes narrowed._

_“Have you been dwelling on that dwarvish legend you spoke to me about a few weeks ago?” The question is rather direct, nearly tactless, and Bilbo sputters a little, before lying._

_“Oh no, I couldn’t find anything more about it in the library and I just decided to let it be after a couple of days. It was just a legend, after all, wasn’t it?” and Bilbo is not sure how he managed to come up with this smooth lie, nor is he sure whether it is the right thing to say. But something, a whisper at the back of his mind, tells him that Lord Elrond’s opinion on the matter is well-known to him and he cannot risk further disapproval of his research, can he. So he quickly silences his protesting conscience and does his best to try and hold a straight and uninterested expression._

_Elrond watches him for a while, gazing at him like he’s not quite convinced. Again, Bilbo feels like his very soul is unfolding under the lord’s eyes, and he catches a glimpse of the worry that has settled on Elrond’s face. Internally, Bilbo frowns a little, his resolution wavering. For a brief moment he wonders whether he’s truly doing the right thing, not telling Lord Elrond what sort of research he means to do; it is more than clear to him that the elven lord is not trying to secure the artefact for himself, as he had first thought – he remembers with a flash of guilt – but rather he is genuinely worried for him. And yet he still doesn’t speak up, keeping his lips tightly pursed, and maybe it is because this worry shows that Lord Elrond does indeed know something more than he lets on, and he feels a little betrayed at his refusal to tell him._

_In the end, the elven lord nods, and a smile seems to replace the worry on his face, though not wiping it out completely._

_“Just a legend, indeed, and darker than it is wise.” He says, gaze returning to the shining moon above his head._

_“I do hope you find the peace you are looking for, my friend, be it in the hearts of dwarves or elves or any other folk. Be aware that my doors will always be open for you.”_

_A shy smile returns on Bilbo’s lips, his heart warmed by such a kind offer. Although he knows in his heart that there is still something he needs to do, Rivendell will always remain one of the most fascinating places he’s ever seen, and its people the kindest folk of all._

_“I thank you again, Lord Elrond, for your hospitality and for your offer. I might still take it up, shall dwarves get on my nerves, which is not such a remote possibility, given the way they managed to swoop in my house completely uninvited and raid my pantry without as much as a by-your-leave” Bilbo replies, his tone first solemn and then playful._

_Elrond lets out a small laugh at the rowdiness of dwarves, of which he has had his own fill when the Company was his guest._

Climbing his way up to the mountain, Bilbo still thought that Lord Elrond had been reticent with him. After all, the worry that had shone through his eyes was a clear indication that he thought something bad could come from the legend, and this implied he did know at least something about it.

Bilbo sighed. He had felt bad, lying to a friend he knew only wanted him to be happy, and moreover who had been such a generous host to him in the past few months. And yet, he knew he could not risk being held back from his quest. He did not know whether Lord Elrond would reach the point of physically preventing him from leaving, and the thought made him shiver. But he could not be sure, and he had to be careful.

In all honesty, Bilbo hoped Lord Elrond would forgive him. After all, he was just a weak little hobbit, with an aching little heart, and he knew he would never forgive himself for not trying to save what was left of his very soul. In the end, he hoped Elrond would understand.

In all that it was the third time that he was crossing the Misty Mountains, Bilbo had never done it alone. The first time he had been with the Company, and on his way back Gandalf had been with him. This time he was alone, despite Elrond’s plead to wait for a caravan to join. But very few caravans did cross the mountains, and Bilbo didn’t know how long he could possibly be waiting for one, so he had decided to brave the High Pass alone.

Slowly but surely, he was coming to regret his decision. Although summer was fast approaching and the weather promised to be merciful, the air up in the pass was still more than chilly, and snow never melted fully there. But more importantly, Bilbo knew well what sort of creatures lived in the mountains, and even though the goblins had been decimated in the battle in Erebor, he still could not chase away the thought that they might be assaulting him any time. For this reason, he never entered any of the natural caves that the High Pass sported from time to time, and instead he preferred to take refuge in small hollows in the mountainside, not quite inside but not at the mercy of the cold wind either, and he slept with his sword clutched in his hand.

And in the black of the night, when the only sounds were the cracking of his small fire and the howling of the wind on the rocks, his mind always drifted back to the memory of the smug loathsome creature he had escaped from in the depth of the goblin tunnels. From time to time he would be startled by the shadows his fire cast, mistaking them for something creeping up on him from the rocks. His eyes wide and his breath ragged, he would finger the pocket of his waistcoat, and slightly calm down when he could feel the smooth golden band inside it. The thought of having the ring always made him feel a little safer, and not only because if any creature should try to attack him he could slip it on and disappear, but also because it reassured him on his quest; for some reason, it felt like a little beacon that was guiding him through the Pass and towards his destination.

Anyway, luck blessed him this time too, and no thunderbattle hindered his way. Although, one evening he had been preparing to set up camp and a few drops of water had started falling on his head, the cold wetness startling him. For a moment Bilbo had frozen, and for the next ten minutes he had waited for the rain to become thick and strong and the mountain giants to raise from their stone thrones to slay each other. But in the end it had only been a common rain, and after a while Bilbo had relaxed and simply tried to shield himself from the rain as best as he could.

It took him several days to skirt the High Pass and descend on the other side of the mountains, but in the end he made it safely and when finally the ground seemed less steep under his feet, he sighed in relief.

This time, when he passed the Carrock, the tip of the stony eyot was hidden by a thick mist, and he could not see it. Bilbo couldn’t help thinking he was grateful for it.

A few more days of riding led him to Beorn’s dwelling.

When he arrived there, it looked like the shapeshifter was not at home, although he was probably aware that Bilbo had crossed his borders. The hobbit dismounted and gave his pony a light pat, and then went inside the house to have a look. Finding it empty, he shrugged and made to go out. But as he walked through the door, a huge dog appeared in front of him. Huge, that is, compared to him: for a hobbit, this dog was indeed very tall, nearly as tall as Bilbo himself in fact. And if he was momentarily startled by its appearance, he soon realised the dog was there to greet him, as its tail was swinging happily and it held in its jaws a basket full of apples, which was carefully deposited at Bilbo’s feet.

The hobbit’s face melted into a smile, and he reached out to scratch the dog behind its ears, and in turn it tried to lick his hand, and Bilbo let it happily enough. After a moment, the dog turned around and left, bouncing lightly on its paws, and Bilbo decided to first bring an apple to Viola, who was now munching placidly on a patch of grass near the alleyway. The beast greeted him happily when he presented her with the apple, and Bilbo stroked her muzzle, murmuring soft words.

Then he went back inside, picking up the basket of apples to have some himself, all the while smiling to himself, for it was surely Beorn who had sent the dog with the apples.

He sat himself at the table, which was far too high for him; therefore he resolved to draw a stool next to his chair, and after digging a bit in his pack, he took out a bit of fresh parchment and started writing a message for the elven king of Mirkwood, Thranduil.

For as much as he wanted to reach his destination as soon as possible, the thought of crossing Mirkwood alone was not a pleasant one. He knew the forest had been cleansed from the giant spiders, and the last time he had travelled through it he had not felt the heaviness that had burdened the Company the first time. However, he did not want to creep in the forest like a thief, resembling an intruder. Therefore he wrote his message to inform, or better, to ask Thranduil for permission to cross his realm. He did not truly think the elven king would deny him the crossing, but nonetheless he would feel safer knowing that the elves were aware he was out in the forest.

By the time he was satisfied with his message, he heard heavy footsteps making their way through the hallway. Bilbo’s face lighted up with a smile at the sight of Beorn, who greeted him enthusiastically, without refraining from scooping him up in a hug, despite Bilbo’s weak protests.

“And here you are again, little bunny! And little more than one year later, well, that didn’t take you very long, did it?” Beorn did not look at all surprised to see him, like he had known all along Bilbo would eventually make his way back to him.

Bilbo shook his head lightly, remembering his kind words from a year ago, and how insightful he had been: he had known back then that Bilbo would not be finding peace in the Shire, and he had patiently waited for him to find out himself.

“Less than you expected, Beorn?” he replied, looking up at the giant, who sent a fond smile his way.

“Aye, it seems you made up your mind rather quickly. And where are you heading, if I may ask?” Beorn said, a hint of playfulness in his tone.

Bilbo sighed mockingly, for his destination what quite obvious, now wasn’t it?

“I am going to Erebor” he let out, a shy smile on his lips.

If he thought about it, he was aware he’d been knowing all the way, since he left the Shire, that eventually he would make his way to Erebor. And now, tucked safely in his pack, a dwarvish legend awaited clarification, and what better place to find it than a dwarven kingdom and its library?

“Ah, I see. So I take it you won’t be staying long, will you, little bunny? But I shall enjoy your company and your stories for the time that you are here” said Beorn, who always understood far more than he let intend.

“Indeed. By the way, I was wondering, if perhaps there is any way to send a message to Thranduil? I would not want to sneak in his forest like a thief, you know” Bilbo said, a smirk on his face at the memory of his employment as a burglar.

Beorn seemed to think about it for a short moment.

“Very well, I will ask one of my ravens to deliver your message. They are not exactly the same as the ravens they have down at the Mountain, for I do not train them to deliver post, and they do not speak Westron, but one of them will carry your message nonetheless, if we ask kindly enough.” And with that Beorn carefully took the small rolled piece of parchment that Bilbo was offering him, and made his way out, probably seeking one of the birds.

Bilbo let out a small breath, relieved that he would be able to inform Thranduil in some way.

When Beorn came back, he found him fast asleep, head perched up on the high table. A tender smile worked its way up the otherwise feral face of the shapeshifter, and he lifted Bilbo up in his arms without effort, only to let him down gently on soft bed, its mattress made of straw.

Beorn took a few seconds to watch the little creature in his sleep: he seemed exhausted, like he had not slept in weeks, and the skinchanger knew it must be a close thing, for he had travelled the High Pass alone and had probably had to be alert all the time.

Beorn gazed at the serene expression taking place on the hobbit’s face, and he sighed softly. As he had predicted, Bilbo had not been able to find peace after he’d left Erebor, and for the very first time in his long life, the giant man felt something akin to empathy for a creature that was not one of his animals. Although Bilbo had never said it aloud, Beorn knew what he had lost, for the haunted look in his eyes spoke of a great hollow, an emptiness he had not quite been able to fill. And Beorn wandered whether he would ever manage to fill it, although he very much hoped so.

 

* * *

 

 

In the next few days, while he waited for a response from the King of the Woodland Realm, Bilbo took a bit of time to enjoy the simple life Beorn could offer him. In some way, it reminded him a bit of the Shire, although without all of the nosy neighbours and distant relation. For a moment, it made his thoughts drift to Hobbiton, and made him wonder whether his cousin Lobelia had already tried to steal away his silverware or to take possession of his house. He shook his head lightly, smiling to himself.

Days passed easily, and Bilbo ventured in the surroundings of Beorn’s house to explore a bit, walking along a small stream of water in the nearby wood or watching the beehives with rapt amazement, for the bees were even bigger than he remembered, and they buzzed around lazily, bouncing from flower to flower.

Relaxing at Beorn’s was easy, and he didn’t mind resting a bit, especially after being on the verge of snapping for entire weeks. He felt safe for the first time since he had left Rivendell, and he was happy to bask in the tranquillity of the place.

However, after a few days he started to wonder whether Thranduil had decided to ignore him altogether, for no response had come from him yet. Beorn’s raven had come back shortly, but he hadn’t born any answer from the elven king.

Nearly two weeks went by and then, one afternoon Bilbo had his response.

The hobbit had gone for one of his walks in the woods and had picked up a few fresh flowers on the way, to set them at the centre of Beorn’s table.

He was lazily making his way back to the house, and when he crossed the door and raised his eyes, the soft tune that he was humming died on his lips.

Tauriel sat at the kitchen table, waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. I am sorry, I know it's been a while, but I've had a very long week, with exams and everything. I am nearly done though, and soon I should be able to concentrate more on the fic!  
> This was a bit of a connection chapter, I guess. But hold on, because something is coming in the next one, Tauriel brings news from Erebor and we will be learning just how the mountain fare while Bilbo was away ;)  
> Anyway, I should really go know, I'm exausted and can barely keep my eyes open. I apologise for any mistakes, feel free to point them out.  
> Feedback is always very welcome.  
> Thanks for reading!  
> UnheardMelody


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